The Downed Detective
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: He can't be sick. He just can't be ill. He hates being sick...! A sick!fic adventure through Sherlock's POV. A spin-off of He's Only Ever Human, but can be read entirely on it's own.
1. Retaining No Body Heat

**The Downed Detective**

**1**

It was just past three in the morning. The majority of Central London was sleeping. The city was quiet, illuminated by the soft glow of the artificial light coming from the street lamps. The moon was at its half state, bathing the sleeping city in its half-light. There was a gentle fluttering of snowfall beginning to dust the streets; it wouldn't stay for long, but it would sweep the city into a happy whirlwind of people when they awoke to a white morning. Snow was so rare in London, so it prompted everyone to take a breath and appreciate it.

Mostly everyone.

Sherlock Holmes scowled as he walked away from the window.

Snow, how distasteful. Majestic, yes, but terrible when he had to go out in it. And seeing as how Lestrade had been texting him the past three days about a case that was simply boring, Sherlock expected the Inspector Detective to show up within the next sixteen hours to demand that he come to New Scotland Yard.

He shivered hard, sighing heavily. It was cold. Not that he would ever admit that to John, who had gone on about the temperature for a whole ten minutes earlier during the night before. They had had a fire going for some time, but now, it had burned down to nothing. It was infinitely more colder in the sitting room.

Sherlock pulled his dressing gown closer, sliding back into the chair. He had been going through a long list of pointless emails that people had sent to him. Trivial cases, via email and the website _and_ Scotland Yard.

He passed his finger across the touchpad of John's laptop, bringing it back to life. His fingers flew over the keyboard silently as he brought up John's blog, his eyes scanning over the latest entry. John was talking about Christmas in this one.

He was going to be thrilled to find that it had snowed.

He looked back up to the window, watching the flakes flutter aimlessly towards the ground.

He shivered again.

This weather was atrocious. Beautiful, but atrocious. He didn't usually feel the cold. He didn't want to bother with things like temperature, and so, he didn't. John always complained about the temperature and Sherlock barely knew what the temperature was to begin with on any given day. It was trivia, and therefore pointless. But, it was cold, now.

He pushed away from the desk again, rubbing his hands against his arms. He was covered in gooseflesh. Starting to shiver constantly.

Time for a shower, then, and maybe catching some sleep. He wasn't so motivated when he was cold, except to curl up under a few blankets. (Once in a good while, this happened, this being cold and wanting to subsequently find warmth. It annoyed him every time.)

He set John's laptop to sleep mode before he padded away from the study desk, the sash on his dressing gown trailing behind him.

There wasn't a case to work on, not besides the one that Lestrade was trying to force on him. It had been almost a week without a case. John had complimented the criminal class; he enjoyed the break. Sherlock, however, was getting more anxious as time went on. Maybe he would just go to the Yard first thing in the morning and get the case solved for Lestrade. At least it would be something to do.

He stepped into the bathroom, shivering harder as his body rejected the idea of his bare feet on the linoleum. He ignored the tremors, closing the door quietly. He was looking forward to getting the steam going in the bathroom, and maybe afterwards, he'd fix himself a cup of tea before heading to bed.

He turned on the water, turning to the mirror in the bathroom. It had been almost a whole week without a case, but he had been too anxious to sleep. He _looked_ very much like he hadn't been sleeping; his eyes were slightly dull and there were almost unnoticeable dark shadows under his eyes. He seemed to look more pale than usual. John probably would have chastised him, but John probably hadn't even noticed yet. No matter; he'd get a few hours of sleep now and he'd be back to normal.

Resisting the urge to yawn, he let his dressing gown slip off his shoulders, lazily following it with his tee. Maybe it was a good thing that he didn't have a case; his mind had latched onto the idea of sleep and was demanding it now. Pushy mind. Always got what it wanted.

Smirking, he tested the water on his fingers, pleased with the temperature. He stepped out of his pyjama pants and into the water, sighing in pleasure. That was nice. _Very_ nice.

He rubbed his arms again, determined to rub away the cold. The water was warm, hot even, washing away the shivering that he had been doing. It was relaxing. Mind-numbing... Peaceful... Relaxing...

He blinked his eyes open again, finding himself having to chase black dots away from his vision. Maybe the water was a little too hot. His heart _was_ pounding quicker in his chest. He raised a hand, splaying his fingers across his chest, feeling the erratic pulse beating away under his skin. The water was probably too hot. But it felt good, and that's all he cared about.

Ten minutes later, he stepped out of the shower, being assailed by the temperature difference between the shower and the bathroom. He swayed slightly, reaching out blindly to grab the shower door. So the water _had_ been too hot. He blinked a few times, steadying himself on the door before grabbing his towel.

He quickly dried off, ignoring the heaviness of his limbs as he wrapped the towel around his waist. Tea, and bed. The cold was already starting to soak back into his body. He grabbed his dressing gown and drew it close, trailing into the kitchen to put the water on to boil.

Three-thirty now. John would probably be awake around nine, nine thirty. He had the day off. Sherlock could probably get five or six hours of sleep, then. Sleeping was a waste of time, much less sleeping late.

He yawned, running his fingers through his hair. Still damp, would dry soon. Might make the pillow damp and cold, though. He'd take the chance.

He took the cup of tea back with him to his bedroom, hanging his dressing gown on the bedpost. He sipped at the tea and dislodged his towel, letting it fall haphazardly onto the floor before he slipped in between his cold sheets.

He made a disgruntled noise but settled back against the headboard with his tea, hoping that the cold would soon leave him alone, once and for all.

Of course, until he got under the duvet entirely, it wouldn't help.

Sherlock drank the rest of his tea in one large gulp, setting the cup onto his nightstand before he slipped down into a more comfortable position. He sighed heavily, again, drawing the blankets up to his chin. He was tired, honestly, tired and cold. Both of those issues would be remedied quick enough.

He pressed his face into the space between the pillow and the mattress, squeezing his eyes shut. This was very strange. He was usually never tired, not when he didn't have a case to make him tired, at least. Maybe John was right about the 'you need to slow down' thing that he was constantly going on about...

But probably not.

He didn't need to slow down. He just needed... some sleep. Just for a few hours...

* * *

**Or does he?**

**Another sick!fic. Will be told in Sherlock's POV. Your reviews are encouraged, appreciated, and thank you for starting a new sick!fic adventure!**


	2. Good old Doctor Watson

**2**

Something woke him up. He wasn't sure what had woken him up, but he wasn't entirely sure. Perhaps it had been John...? But, no, Sherlock was always up before John was.

He raised his head slightly, flinching a bit at the pain in his head. Pain. Pounding. That wasn't good. That couldn't be good. He didn't _get_ headaches, not the normal kind, not just from... whatever. From normal humanesque reasons. He just didn't.

He squeezed his eyes tightly before opening them, blinking a few times when he found the room to be too bright. His curtains were drawn; they were almost always drawn on a normal day, but it was still brighter than it should have been for the morning. Conclusion: it was later than his normal time to wake up, much later, probably rounding noon if he were to guess.

Nonetheless. It was _too_ bright.

He closed his eyes again, swallowing. It led to a new discovery: his throat hurt. His _throat_ hurt-

He paused, reopening his eyes. His head was pounding. His eyes hurt from the light of the room, the muted light. His throat was hurting, when he swallowed. All of that added up to one solution, really, but-

No. _No_, he did not just get _sick_. He couldn't be sick. Not him. No. There was no way.

His throat tickled. He swallowed again, but the feeling didn't go away. Ignoring it, then. He'd just ignore it. Ignoring it...

He twisted his face to cough into his pillow, flinching afterwards.

It was just a fluke. There was absolutely _no way_-

"Sherlock, your phone, it keeps going off. You've got texts from Lestrade-" John pushed open Sherlock's bedroom door without so much as knocking. Normally, that would have irritated Sherlock, but he was suddenly more preoccupied by the crack of the door against the wall that was entirely too loud to his own ears.

He couldn't stop from flinching. Unconsciously, he seized the edge of his blankets and wrenched them over his head, but not before he caught John's gaze turning to one of concern.

"Sherlock? Are you okay?"

There were footsteps; John crossing the room to stand next to the bed.

Sherlock tightened his grip on the blankets, keeping his eyes closed. He was still trying to get over the door hitting the wall; his ears were ringing still and his head pain had intensified. "Perfectly fine."

"You flinched when the door hit the wall and now you're hiding under the blankets. You do weird things but that's not normal behaviour, Sherlock."

"Don't be ridiculous," he replied, swallowing again. He wondered, vaguely, if he was going to lose his voice. "I'm not hiding."

He felt the blankets pull and he had a half second before he was subjected to the light of the room. He gave John a brief but hateful look before he placed his arm over his eyes.

"Do you have sensitivity to light and sound or something? Are you running a fever?"

"I am fine," he said stubbornly.

There was pressure on his forehead. Probably the back of John's hand.

Sherlock glanced over his own arm, frowning. "What are you doing?"

"You're warm..." John murmured, removing his hand. "Probably from all your terrible habits like _not sleeping_... I'll get you some paracetamol."

There was the creaking of a door, the door that connected his room to the bathroom. Going through with the getting medicine thing, then.

He didn't want medicine. He wanted to sleep. Well, no, he didn't _want_ to sleep, but the bed was warm and inviting and the darkness was peaceful and calling to him...

He pulled the blankets closer, ducking his head under the blankets.

"Sherlock- hey, don't be going back to sleep yet! You need medicine!"

Sherlock studiously ignored him. Until John started shaking his shoulder.

He barely bit back the groan that threatened to bring a voice to his pain. "What do you want, John?" he muttered, anger leaking into his voice. He was starting to feel worse the longer he stayed awake. His head was pounding worse. His throat was hurting even when he didn't swallow. His stomach was starting to feel unpleasant as well. John pulling the blankets away from him only made him shiver harder.

"Take the paracetamol and _then_ go back to sleep."

He sighed heavily, almost huffed, partially coughed, as he sat up and swiped the medication from John. "Much obliged," he said sarcastically, placing the pills on his tongue and swallowing them back. He left John standing by the bedside, with the untouched glass of water as he turned back over and nuzzled under the blankets away.

"Bloody take water with your pills, Sherlock!" John complained hotly after a moment. There was some more grumbling as well as a light _tap_; presumably John placing the glass onto the nightstand. Sherlock couldn't exactly tell... things were somehow hazy. Hazy and covered with a listless sleep-induced haze.

"Get some sleep," John was saying. "I'll check back on you later and make sure that the fever's going..."

Sherlock had stopped listening. He didn't exactly know if it was a conscious decision or not, but it was just John's inane prattle about sicknesses and such. He wasn't missing much.

Sherlock hated being sick. It messed with his mind. It made him mind send different messages, _wrong_ messages to the rest of his body. See, he wasn't cold. He knew he wasn't cold. He knew his body was hot. John had ascertained that fact. But, he was shivering. And there was the illness coming into play. Telling him the wrong thing.

He _hated_ it. He hated not being able to trust his own mind.

He swallowed again, opening his eyes again. John had left the room. It was all silence again, his door closed and just the quiet ticking of the clock breaking it. It was... so peaceful.

Except for the pounding in his head. Except for that.

He rolled over again, reaching clumsily for the glass of water on the nightstand. His perception was skewed, however, and his fingers uncoordinated.

He knew the outcome before it happened.

He watched the glass fall, almost in slow motion. It was going to hit the floor, going to shatter into little pieces, water was going to spread all over the floor, John was going to come barging back, and-

Sherlock flinched when the glass hit the ground, shattered. The noise echoed in his ears and made him want to press his hands against them.

"Sherlock?"

And there was John, right on cue- the door creaking open again as the doctor peered in. Sherlock waved his hand absently towards the glass on the floor, muttering "Fine" under his breath. He was fine. Just... thirsty. And now he didn't have water, because it was on the floor, because he was uncoordinated, because he was _sick_-

"I'll clean it up... Did you want something, then? Tea, maybe? If your throat's hurting, tea with honey would help..."

"That would be... good," Sherlock replied, his voice giving out. He mentally flinched. Control, Sherlock. Control. You have control over your own body, so _act like it_.

"Just stay there," John said, vanishing from the room a moment later.

_Where would I go?_ he mentally wondered, leaning back against the headboard to stare at the far wall. When John came back, he voiced the question out loud, continuing the conversation as if John hadn't just left, made tea, and come back.

"What?" John said absently, handing Sherlock a mug. Sherlock quickly found that it was tea, likely containing honey as well.

"I said," Sherlock repeated, after taking a sip of the tea (it was good; very good, actually), "Where would I go? You told me to stay here, so-" He had just taken another sip of tea when a jolt of sickening malaise travelled throughout his body, settling somewhere deep in his stomach. He removed the mug from his lips, closing his eyes.

"Sherlock?" John's voice sounded far away, distant and almost tunnel-like. "Sherlock, you okay?"

Sherlock opened his eyes again and swallowed hard, licking his lips, before moving to place his mug down. John took it from him, although his eyes were concerned, worried. It made Sherlock feel even more sick.

"Are you okay?" John repeated, returning to Sherlock's side. "You're nauseous?"

"I'm fine," he said after a moment, frowning at the window. It was too bright. (He just needed to keep his mind on something else, anything else, than the churning in his stomach. It was a self-control issue, and he wouldn't give into it.)

"Look, you- were you feeling ill last night?" John once again pressed the back of his hand against Sherlock's forehead.

Sherlock moved out of the way, dislodging John's hand. "I was cold and tired, although I didn't think of it. Otherwise, no, I was fine."

John's fingers looped around Sherlock's wrist, resting gently to take his pulse. "What time did you go to bed?"

"Roughly twenty 'til four."

The disapproval was clear in John's voice when he responded. "What was so important that kept you awake that late when we _don't_ have a case?"

Sherlock shrugged a shoulder. "This and that."

John released Sherlock's wrist, producing a stethoscope. Sherlock frowned; where (and why) did he keep that here? It was medical equipment and, it was therefore meant to stay at the clinic. John didn't seem to notice the look. "I'm serious, Sherlock, what were you doing?" His fingers hooked around the blankets and removed them, only enough to get at Sherlock's bare chest with the cold metal.

"John!" Sherlock protested, flinching backwards as much as he could when the metal of the stethoscope touched his skin. A hard shiver rocked his frame and he groped for the blankets again, but John pushed his hand away.

"You're the one who insists on sleeping in the nude so," John replied. "Deep breaths, if you want me to remove it anytime soon."

"I-It's _cold_," he complained, raising his hand to force the thing away from his chest.

John caught his hand and forced it back down, holding it there. "I _said_, take a deep breath. I want to listen to your breathing. And preferably your heart, if you would cooperate."

"You just took my pulse; that's good enough."

"Sherlock."

It was _that_ voice. _That_ tone. That slightly exasperated but still containing poorly disguised concern voice. John's 'doctor' voice. The 'please, will you do what I say?' voice. _The_ voice that was designated for saying Sherlock's name alone, and only when John thought that Sherlock needed something. The voice that Sherlock... couldn't bring himself to say 'no' to.

Just because it was John's equivalent of 'please'.

He took a deep breath.

"Thank you," John muttered.

Sherlock stared at the far wall stonily. He flinched every time that John placed the disc against a different part of his chest.

"So, are you going to tell me? Or is it such a big secret?" John asked, placing a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. His hands were warm. Sherlock was mildly jealous. "Sit up."

"Big secret? What big secret?" Sherlock muttered, placing a hand against the wall to push away from the headboard.

"What you were doing last night?" John replied impatiently, pressing the disc against Sherlock's back.

Sherlock flinched again. "Are you done with that _yet_?" he hissed, coughing afterwards.

"Deep breath."

He gripped the blankets and pulled them up to his chest. "You are inhumanly slow," he said, returning to taking deep breaths afterwards.

He was infinitely more relaxed after John had removed the stethoscope from his ears a moment later, folding it up.

"Well, it sounds fine. Since you haven't touched that tea for a few minutes, I'm going to get your temp."

Sherlock leaned back against the headboard as John walked back into the bathroom. "I-" he coughed again. "I was tackling correspondences and, you know, the website and looking through your blog and such. Noticed it was snowing. It got cold, I took a shower, went to bed."

John's head peered around the corner of the room. "Wait, you took a shower? Hot shower?"

"What other kind of shower would I take?" he replied insolently.

"Well, that probably did more harm than good."

"I didn't know that I was sick," Sherlock retorted. "I never get sick."

John's head once again peered around the doorway. "I'm really worried now. You just said that you didn't know something." He vanished around the door frame again. "Although, you do consider your body to be transport, after all..." He walked back into the room. "Here we are. Put this under your tongue."

Sherlock took the thermometer, twirling it between his fingers. His fever wasn't _that_ high yet- probably around thirty-eight, thirty-eight and a half. Of course, that shower from before hadn't helped, but he hadn't known that _then_...

"Under your tongue."

Sherlock looked back to John, frowning. "I heard you the first time." He placed the thermometer under his tongue, staring up at John.

John returned his gaze stonily for a moment before a carefree smile lifted his lips, and he was laughing then.

John was utterly _different_ when he wasn't serious. He was carefree and laughing and the entire world couldn't touch him, for a moment, when he didn't have any qualms, and it was nice. It was a nice change from the usual, serious, overworked, tired John. Not that Sherlock didn't have a hand in that- he did run the doctor ragged but he _had_ warned him, to be fair.

It was nice, he supposed. When John was laughing, he wanted to smile, too.

The thermometer beeped and he removed it, finally able to open his mouth and voice "What's so funny?"

"That look on your face was funny. What's the reading?"

"What?" he asked, absently, looking down at the thermometer. "What did my face look like?"

"Very, uhm, displeased," John replied, amusement still in his tone. "Now, what's the reading?"

Sherlock hit the thermometer's 'off' button, it powering down with a single _beep_.

"Sherlock!"

"Thirty-eight point six," Sherlock stated, handing the thermometer back to John. He then slid down, carefully, between the covers, stretching out. His back was hurting from the awkward sitting arrangement and he really just wanted to go back to sleep.

"How do I know you're telling me the truth!" was John's response. He was annoyed. His voice was louder than before. Not happy now, obviously, his voice grating on Sherlock's eardrums...

He pulled the blankets over his head again. "If I were lying, would I bother to actually _admit _that I had a fever in the first place?"

Some silence. "Good point," John finally said. "Well, I'll be in the sitting room if you need me. Just yell."

Sherlock didn't bother to point out to John that he couldn't have yelled if he wanted to, considering the state of his throat and the ever-worsening pain in his head. He just nodded slightly, remembering that John couldn't see his head under the blankets after the fact.

There was silence again, and Sherlock thought that maybe John had left without him hearing him, but the blankets were then pulled away from his head. He gave John a sharp glare, reaching to take the blankets back- it was warmer with his head covered up, thank you very much, John- but John interrupted.

"Don't sleep with your head covered up. I know you're cold but trying to retain body heat isn't a good idea."

Sherlock stared at him lividly for a moment. He didn't need John to tell him what to do. He knew what he wanted. He did what he wanted, good or not...

But, John was right. It was the fever, it was the sickness, it was his brain playing tricks on him...

He sighed heavily, the exhale of breath trembling for reasons he couldn't place at the moment. Probably the pain, maybe the cold. Combination of both-

John placed his hand against Sherlock's forehead again, briefly. Sherlock, resisting the urge to snap at John for things that were embedded in his hard drive, let his eyes flutter shut.

* * *

**Half of this chapter closely replicates my story, _He's Only Ever Human_, dialogue included, so if you read the _Unwell_ chapter in that, you'll recognize some of it. Otherwise, there's new stuff.**

**Skewing Sherlock's mind is difficult, considering his mind doesn't _get_ skewed. Hopefully I'm staying pretty much IC.**

**Thanks for your support and I would love to see more thoughts!**


	3. Passing On the Germs

**3**

He woke up to a cold rag on his forehead.

A slow shiver edged its way down his spine, shaking his entire body as he raised an arm to brush the rag off.

Fingers caught his wrist.

Sherlock opened his eyes.

John was staring down at him, eyes worried. Sherlock immediately knew that his fever hadn't gotten any better, most likely worse from John's expression. Immediately after rationalizing that, he could start to feel just how worse he felt.

His throat, which had merely been an annoyance earlier, felt like it was on fire. He swallowed and immediately regretted it; pain seized up around the movement and he resisted the urge to press his fingers, because they were cold, against his neck. And yes, the cold. He was shivering, now, harder than he had been before and it was useless to try and stop it. He could ignore the cold on a normal day, not even notice the temperature, but when he was sick, it was utterly useless to try and fend it off. It wasn't even _there_, technically speaking. Technically speaking, he was simply hot.

Nonetheless, his fingers felt like they had just recently been held under the snow. He curled his hands into fists, removing his arm from John's grasp to place it back under the blankets.

His head was throbbing in a generally painful way. It had been generally steady before, a pulsating throb that kept in time with the ticking clock. It was still throbbing in that annoyingly steady way, but there were moments where the pain doubled, perhaps tripled, as sharp stabbing aches took control.

The stabbing pains in his head shot straight down his body, leaving unpleasantness in their travelled path. Something new that had happened was his stomach had taken on the illness as well. It hurt, just like the rest of the aches and pains his body had adopted, but this was a pain that made him think he was liable to vomit if the problem didn't get fixed soon.

"You're awake?"

John's voice was normal, probably, but to Sherlock's ear, it was entirely too loud. Too loud and too grating, and the pain in his head intensified briefly, a whole new fresh wave of pain crashing over him.

"Sorry." John's voice was quieter now, and Sherlock reasoned that he must have flinched or something of similar extents.

"I'm-" His voice gave out and he coughed. It was a terrible idea, and he should have known that there was a reaction to every action.

The cough, one simple little cough, led to a whole new round of the insatiable urge to _continue_ coughing. The continued motion sent pain to every nerve ending in his body. The pain continued the chain reaction by causing little black splotches to break out across his vision and he squeezed his eyes shut to force them away.

He, at some time, became aware of John's voice in the background. "Breathe... _Breathe_," he was saying. Sherlock did his best to follow the command, although his sarcastic remark had died before it had even gotten to his tongue.

"I'll get you some cough syrup," John was saying. He stood, but Sherlock shook his head slightly.

"No... No, I used it all in that experiment three weeks ago," he whispered, swallowing. He couldn't bring his voice above the whisper, although it seemed rather imprudent to do so, anyway.

"Are you kidding me?" John sighed heavily, pressing his fingers against his eyes. "Okay. I'll go downstairs and see if Mrs. Hudson has any. You okay on your own for a minute?"

"I'm fine, John," Sherlock replied bitterly, folding an arm over his eyes again.

Truth be utterly told, he couldn't quite recall having ever felt so bad in his life. And he had had his fair share of run-ins with danger and the resulting injuries that had occurred. He had always been fine with those. He could handle those without blinking. This, however...

His stomach gave a particularly nasty jolt and he swallowed, deciding it was better to throw the blankets off and go to the toilet before he ended up being sick in his own room. From the moment that his bare feet touched the floor, however, he regretted the decision altogether.

It was like sleeping onto pure ice. His toes, already cold, felt like they too had just stepped into the snow rather than onto the hardwood floor. He fumbled for his dressing gown and pulled it tight around him, noting how extremely cold silk cloth could be to the skin.

He slipped the bathroom door open and stumbled into the bathroom. The movement hadn't done any good- had probably done worse, actually; perhaps he should have stayed in bed- and he just barely managed to make it to the toilet before proceeding to get violently sick.

It was easily one of the most disgusting experiences. Vomiting, that was.

If only John hadn't ordered spaghetti the night before.

His throat was absolutely on fire- a stark contrast to the rest of his body- and he knew that the tap was only a few feet away. His entire body had different plans, it seemed, as it was all but shutting down as he sank onto his knees. It wasn't prudent to leave the bathroom just yet, and so-

"Sherlock?"

John's voice was like a gun to his head, only with the trigger being pulled, more like, and the sudden reoccurrence of pain sent him vomiting again.

"Oh, geez..." John was in the doorway, watching Sherlock with a worried face.

Sherlock rubbed the back of his hand against his mouth, trying to ignore the taste now pervading his tastebuds, before he waved disdainfully. "I'm fine." He had meant for it to sound absolutely sure and quite true, but he'd forgotten that he couldn't get above a whisper and the vomiting had only made it worse.

John walked into the bathroom, setting down a bottle of what appeared to be cough syrup. He went to the sink, turning on the tap. "Is this the first time you've vomited?"

The particular phrase of words irked him, most likely because he was vomiting at all. Maybe because John was asking him about things that were better left never discussed. Possibly a combination of the both.

"Yes," he said shortly, blinking in nearly concealed surprise as John offered him a glass of water. He gratefully took it, taking a small sip. Best not to overdo it. Another sip. His stomach churned in response. He curled his fingers around the toilet seat tightly. He was vaguely aware of watching his knuckles turn white.

"Sherlock," John started. Warning tone of voice. Likely to chastise him for resisting the urge to be sick once again.

Sherlock swallowed hard, making up his mind that, no, he wasn't going to get sick anymore. He pushed away from the toilet and stumbled to his feet. His legs still were uncooperative; he stumbled sideways, slopping some of the water down his front. The resulting gasp was involuntary, but the water was cold to the extreme.

"Okay," John said quickly, taking the cup from Sherlock. "You need to go back to bed. Are you sure you're not going to be sick again?"

He lifted his head slightly and started back to the bedroom without so much as breathing a response. He wasn't a child, and he would have no part of John talking to him like one.

"Well, I'm going to have to do a Tesco's run," John said as Sherlock gingerly slid back under the duvet. "We're almost out of paracetamol and I'll get you some ginger ale and peppermints... Are you going to be okay on your own?"

"John," he said, wincing a bit as he laid back, "you may find this hard to believe, and trust me, so do I, but I have been sick before." He paused to take a breath, finding himself to be short on essential oxygen. "I can take care of myself."

"Sherlock, the latter isn't hard to believe; it's flat-out impossible. Stay in bed. I'll leave this here." He sat the cup on the nightstand. "Let me get you the bin from the kitchen." Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but John continued on. "_Just_ in case you feel ill again. I don't want you up walking around while I'm out."

John left the room and Sherlock sighed heavily, coughing a bit. His chest ached. He pressed his fingers against a point of pain there, wishing it away. It was inconvenient and... rather painful.

"And honey. Honey would be good," John said as he walked back in. "Is there anything else you want? Something from downstairs?"

The thought of food, much less food from Speedy's made him feel ill all over again. Trying to maintain as much dignity as he could, because he was fairly sure that the colour had just drained from his face, he shook his head.

"Okay. I'll be back soon. Just stay in bed."

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief when he heard John grab his coat and descend the stairs.

Finally, he was alone. Alone with his thoughts.

... And the pounding headache.

* * *

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock pried his eyes open, ignoring the shiver as it wracked his body. There was more important things to worry about now. Seeing as how the voice that had just called his name didn't belong to John... There was only one possibility as to who would be visiting.

Sherlock threw the blankets off, nearly falling out of the bed in his haste to get to his feet.

He stumbled across the room and swung his bedroom door shut, flipping the lock for good measure.

"Sherlock, don't do that! I warned you that I was coming over, and it's not my fault that you ignore my texts, either, so you can just deal with this one."

Sorely resisting the urge to tell Lestrade to _shut up_, because he was talking entirely too loud for anyone's good, he tripped to his dresser and wrenched the drawer open.

"It's going to take you probably ten minutes to solve this case. Why do you insist on making the whole thing difficult for _me_?"

He didn't bother trying to respond, just slipped his arms through the sleeves of a shirt and cursed his fingers repeatedly when they fumbled on every button.

"Sherlock, I'm not leaving until you come out. You'll have to eventually."

He had completely tuned Lestrade out after that sentence. He had paused, gripping the dresser drawer tightly and pressing his lips together. He would _not_ get sick, in his bedroom, while Lestrade was in the house. No. He would rather die, frankly. He swallowed hard and shoved the dresser drawer shut, opening another drawer to grab a pair of trousers.

"Sherlock. Don't make me call John."

Sherlock laughed without consciously deciding to. It sent a thousand little needles stabbing down his throat. The laugh turned into a cough and he pressed his hand over his mouth when he gagged reflexively.

"Sherlock? You okay?"

He swallowed again. _Breathe, Holmes. In and out. You are fine. Fine._

He buttoned his trousers, closing that drawer as well before walking to his bedroom door, finally opening it.

Lestrade was standing outside of it, arms crossed, but his eyes had taken on a concerned haze, which deepened when Sherlock appeared in the door.

"You look terrible."

Wonderful deduction.

"John insisted that I sleep," he said shortly, leaning against the door frame. He felt like his legs could start shaking any moment now. How ridiculous. How absolutely ridiculous, stupid body.

"Do you normally look like Death warmed over when you wake up?" Lestrade questioned, looking at him closer.

Sherlock resisted the urge to lean back. He would probably fall if he tried to do that. So, if Lestrade wanted to get his germs, he'd let him. Maybe it'd stop him bothering him at inopportune moments.

"Comical. Where's the case file?" He shivered again and bit the inside of his cheek. John had been right on the stay-in-bed thing. He shouldn't have been out of bed. As much as he hated to admit it, he needed to be resting, if only so he didn't end up collapsing in the middle of the hallway.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm _fine_," he replied bitterly.

"Okay." He turned away. "Kitchen table."

Sherlock rest his head against the wall briefly, taking the deepest breath he could manage without triggering an attack of coughing. After a moment, he followed Lestrade, keeping his eyes on the carpet, and his feet. Left foot in front of right foot, in front of left foot...

It took him three times of looking over the files before the case actually sunk in. It took him a few more seconds to realize that Lestrade had taken to making himself at home, having made himself a cup of tea. He was now getting the milk out of the fridge. Sherlock took one glance at the container and barely bit down the impending nausea, pressing his fingers to his eyes briefly.

He counted his breaths, swallowing taking in enough air to chase away the urge to be sick. It wasn't working as well as it should.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" Sherlock opened his eyes to find Lestrade looking at him. He'd put the mug down and was frowning. "You look about to be sick."

Sherlock placed his hands back on the table, interlacing his fingers. "If I were you, I'd speak again with the shop owner. She knows more than she's..." A wave of vertigo. That was new. Overall spiraling sensation, did not help with his stomach problems. "... she's letting on."

"Okay... Are you sure?" Sherlock gave him an indignant glare, the best he could manage, at least. "Right, okay." Lestrade grabbed the mug, drinking down the rest of his tea in a single gulp. "Thanks for your generous help."

"My pleasure," he replied sarcastically. He would have moved, stood and stumbled his way back to his bedroom, but he was pretty sure standing would have less-than-pleasant consequences right now.

"I'll let you know when I find out more." Lestrade turned and headed out the door, only pausing long enough to look at Sherlock again, eyes worried, before going down the stairs.

He sighed heavily, letting out a breath that he was unaware that he'd been holding. He slumped forward, dropping his forehead onto the table. He just... needed to catch his breath. Just needed... needed to rest...

* * *

**I finally got around to working on fanfiction again. I'm in charge of putting on a theatre production now, so I had to write a play, and that kept me busy. The whole thing is still stressing me out, but I'm excited. It'll be my first time actually being in a play, so, yes, I'm incredibly nervous. But still excited. Anyway, production's not for awhile, but there's a lot to do.**

**Anyway, Sherlock can't cope with being sick. At least, can't let other people realize that he's sick. Oh, John is not going to be happy with him. xD**

**Reviews are appreciated! Thank you!**


	4. The Doctor Is In, and He's Annoyed

**4**

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock opted to ignore John's voice as the doctor shrugged his coat off in the sitting room. He had fallen asleep, with his head on the kitchen table, for an undetermined amount of time. His head was still pounding, albeit maybe worse, although he didn't know how that could even happen. He imagined that the hard wood of the table wasn't helping anything, but he wasn't taking the chance of getting up.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John's voice was closer now, too close. He didn't sound particularly happy. It was making Sherlock's head hurt worse. "I thought I told you to stay in bed."

"Lestrade..." Sherlock muttered, raising his head wearily. "Lestrade dropped by."

"Is that why you decided to ignore doctor's orders? Not only to get out of bed, but to get dressed, and come out here to help on a case that probably wasn't important to begin with?" Yes, John was angry. Sherlock really wished that he would lower his voice. It wasn't doing him any good. If John was already angry because he had done something that involved bringing his fever up, making himself feel more ill, why was John _insisting_ on making him feel worse by talking loudly? Actually, why did it matter to John? It was Sherlock's pain, wasn't it? Why did John care-

Sherlock coughed, proceeding to rest his head against his arm again. He was too tired to think. It was a scary feeling.

"Sherlock, sit up." Sherlock didn't both to reply. "Sherlock, you need to go back to bed." Sherlock still didn't bother to raise his head again. "Sherlock-"

"John," he moaned, tucking his face into the crook of his arm. He chose to ignore the fact that his pride had just taken a personal blow as the pain had overtaken him.

"You're the one who got out of bed. I mean, what the _hell_ is so important that you had to get _dressed_?" Sherlock suddenly found himself subjected to hands cradling his head, raising it. He blinked against the light, leaning back out of John's reach. "It's not like Lestrade cares about what you're wearing. Hell, he called me earlier to ask me if you were on something, Sherlock. He thought you were on drugs."

He would think that, wouldn't he? Always assuming the worse... Always assuming, always wrong...

He dropped his head back onto his arm.

"Sherlock, go back to bed."

"I'll just sleep here..." he mumbled.

"Geez. You aren't even trying to keep up a brave face anymore. You _must_ be feeling bad."

Sherlock raised his head at that comment, fixing John with one of the weakest glares that he was fairly sure that had ever graced his face.

John watched him for a moment before sighing quietly. "Come on, then." He offered a hand. "Back to bed."

Sherlock contemplated John's hand for a moment. Bed sounded nice. Much more comfortable than sitting here at the table, where his back was beginning to hurt again. Where it was brighter than his own bedroom. Where it was much colder than his own bedroom. There were blankets in his room... The blankets and his duvet and the bed where he could stretch out...

However. There were cons to every pro and, at the most present moments, the thought of the 'cons' made him want to vomit or pass out, or maybe do both simultaneously, so, instead of taking John's hand, he dropped his head onto the table once again.

"No, thanks."

"Sherlock," John said distastefully.

"I think I might be sick," he said suddenly, raising his head again. The world had taking on doing its odd spinning again. It did not go over well with his general state of health.

"Yes, Sherlock, you're sick. Now, _go back to bed_."

If Sherlock hadn't been so exhausted, or hadn't been fighting against unyielding nausea, he might have rolled his eyes or called John an idiot. "No, John," he said less-than-patiently, pushing away from the table and hauling his tired body to its feet. "I think I'm going to vomit again."

"Oh." John looked back at him. "Taking the fact that you're not vomiting onto the floor now, I'm assuming you can make it back to the bathroom?"

It wasn't a question of whether or not he could make it to the bathroom, because he _would_. The most prominent question was... _When is the world going to stop spinning so I can open my eyes?_

"Sherlock?"

"Vertigo," he murmured, without opening his eyes again.

"Oh. Uhm, the offer still stands. If you'll actually accept my help."

Sherlock reopened his eyes, blinking hard. The world was still spinning a bit, but it wasn't bad enough to keep his eyes closed.

So, now he was faced with a slightly annoying question: did he accept John's help? Either option he had at the moment was utterly distasteful: vomit in the kitchen or accept John's help. Either option was a metaphorical hit to his pride-

Between the two point seven seconds that elapsed between him opening his eyes and his thought process, the nausea returned with a vengeance. He gagged and pressed his hand over his mouth quickly, taking an immediate step towards the bathroom. He stumbled slightly and John gripped his arm before he could argue.

"Okay, if you puke here, I'm not cleaning it up. Come on."

Pressure against his back, John pressing a hand against his back, using it to likely guide him. To support him. Something.

He raised a hand, gripping John's shoulder tightly.

His body was controlling his mind, and his body had made the decision to accept John's help.

"So, you're dizzy, nauseous, have a fever... Still have a headache?" John muttered, glancing up at him. Sherlock glanced sideways at him before nodding slightly. "Uhm... Cough, vomiting... Anything else?"

Sherlock chose not to answer that question in favour of not opening his mouth. He looked back ahead.

"I'm not sure if you're just not answering me because you're being your normal self, or if it's because you're trying not to throw up..." John mused, more to himself. Sherlock ignored him again.

He stumbled away from John once they hit the bathroom. He stumbled to the toilet, sinking into a sitting position against the wall. He wasn't going to be sick- again- if he could help it, but he dubbed it useful to be in the bathroom, anyway.

When Sherlock looked up from the floor, he noticed that John was leaning back against the bathroom counter, looking at him.

"What?" Sherlock asked, staring up at him.

"I'm just wondering why you're trying to ignore the fact that you _will_ end up vomiting sooner or later."

"It's just a matter of... self control," he muttered, coughing slightly, resisting the urge to flinch. He swallowed and closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall.

"Sore throat, too?"

He nodded slightly.

"Yes, you probably have the flu, then."

He wanted to say something along the lines of _wonderful_, but he had coughed again, and it was less than easy to actually catch his breath this time. At some point, and he wasn't exactly sure _what_ moment, because it all blended together, the coughing triggered his gag reflex, triggering his upset stomach, triggering another vomiting spree.

"Hm... I did pick up cough syrup, whenever you think you won't vomit it back up..."

"Would-Would you get _out_?" Sherlock hissed, resting his forehead against the toilet seat.

"Oh, yeah. Let me know if you think you can't crawl your way back to your room." John's voice was sarcastic. He was angry.

Sherlock sighed heavily, taking a shallow breath through his nose. The day had gotten very unpleasant, very quickly. With a typical case of the flu, it usually lasted for... for...

He raised his head, frowning at the wall. A typical case of the flu usually lasted for... Oh, hell, he couldn't remember...! No, no, you know this, just _think_-

He groaned, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. He couldn't just _not_ remember something. He always remembered _everything_. Everything that was worth remembering, that was. But, now, something as inane as the duration of the _flu_...

Sherlock shivered hard, struggling to his feet. He got himself a drink of water, splashing some cold water onto his face. It was a stupid idea in retrospect, but would help in the long run, he imagined. But his body wasn't having the cold without trembling, and that... was... irritating. Irritating, because he didn't have a better word to describe what the shivering was doing to his already upset stomach.

He stumbled back towards the bedroom, using the wall as a complete support. He knew John was around, most likely in the kitchen or sitting room, most likely pretending to be doing something but really waiting and wanting to help. His stubbornness and mild agitation with Sherlock was preventing him from just getting up and offering to help again. At the same time, his compassion and concern was willing him to get up and get over himself, because he had lived with Sherlock this long, and he could handle it.

Sherlock knew that was what was going on in John's mind, and he didn't even have to think about it.

He stumbled the last few steps to his bed, literally falling onto the duvet. He sighed heavily, deciding that it just wasn't worth it to bother moving, even if he was cold.

"You look exceedingly comfortable," said the familiar voice of his flatmate from the doorway.

"Shut up," he muttered. He blinked hard, pushing himself up enough to fall into a proper position, drawing the duvet over his body. "I wondered when... your compassion would win out," he muttered, fumbling with the pillow as he pulled it closer.

"I'm a doctor," John muttered, although he still sounded annoyed. "I have to deal with annoying patients. It's part of my job."

Sherlock hummed in response, wondering when the hell John was going to go back to pretending to be busy so he could sleep.

"Will you at least take some cough syrup? If you want to keep having the chain reactions, be my guest, but I think it'd be better to, you know, _stop_ vomiting from coughing."

Sherlock sighed heavily. Cough syrup. Any sort of syrup medication was a disgusting waste of time. Literally disgusting, as the flavours were far from what they were supposed to be and the smell was enough to make someone nauseous. He hated taking any medicine, but syrups were the worst.

Faced with the alternative, however...

"Fine..." he muttered.

"Good," John said. He sounded pleased. Sherlock sighed again.

Life was not good.

First, the snow. Cold, unhelpful snow.

Second, Lestrade's case. Boring, unwholesome case.

Third, the sickness. Abnormal, uncooperating sickness.

He sneezed.

"Bless you." John was back. "Here. Supposed to be cherry, although it just smells like... medicine."

"Of course it does," Sherlock muttered, sitting up just enough to grab the dosage cup full of red-coloured syrup. "It never tastes like the flavour it's supposed to." He pressed the cup to his lips, tipping it back. He was immediately assailed with the taste of cheap, fake cherry flavour, the medical taste of the syrup before he swallowed hard.

"Sorry. None of it tastes good," John muttered, taking the dosage cup back.

"I'll improve it..." Sherlock murmured, dropping his head back onto his pillow.

"If you can make medicine that people won't complain about the taste, I'll support the experiment it takes to create it."

"Right. I'll need several different medications and... different flavourings..."

"Uh huh. I suppose you'll need a test subject, won't you?"

"Yeah..." He trailed off, frowning. "Wait, John, are you humouring me?"

"Yes, Sherlock, I am. Why don't you change into something more comfortable? Your pyjamas again?"

"... Wrong..." he muttered quietly.

"What?"

"You said "Your pyjamas again". I wasn't in my pyjamas before; therefore, I can't change into them _again_." He coughed briefly. His throat hurt. Tea actually sounded good right now, since he had gotten over what seemed to be the worst of his nausea for now.

"Well, there is a certain connotation to saying 'Sherlock, take your clothes off'."

"Too tired," he replied absently.

"Come on. You can't be comfortable."

"I am fine. Perfectly fine..."

"Fine. Did you want anything else? Ginger ale, maybe? I picked up some of that and some peppermints. Oh, I also got some applesauce. It's not so much a solid and it's easy on you... Maybe not the best thing for the moment, but..."

"Is tea not an option?"

"Well, ginger ale will help to settle your stomach."

"So, that's a 'no'."

"Yes, it's a 'no'. Shall I get you some ginger ale, then?"

Sherlock coughed again, ducking his head under the duvet. "Yes..."

"You know, saying 'please' wouldn't kill you." But John's voice was trailing away, becoming distant, as Sherlock imagined that John was walking back to the kitchen.

Besides, he wouldn't have said 'please', anyway.

* * *

**Don't be so sure, Sherlock... /enter creepy Hallow's Eve laugh [/author is a dork and is in a Hallows' Eve mood]**

**Thank you guys for the support! Hopefully you're enjoying the story! It's actually increasingly difficult to write a sick!fic from Mr. Sick Sociopathic Sherlock.**


	5. PLEASE!

**5**

Sherlock was vaguely aware of being cold. He wondered, briefly, what idiot had dragged him out into frozen London to solve this case, before he realized that he wasn't outside in frozen London at all, but safely in his bedroom.

"John... John?" He cleared his throat, trying to sit up. It didn't go over well. Every part of his body rejected the idea of movement, and his head flopped back onto the pillow uselessly. He couldn't hear past the thumping in his ears, but there was a dull ringing in the background.

"... lock?"

Sherlock blinked hard, trying to chase away the headache and trying to focus more on the words that were being said now. Someone... Had to be John, then...

"Sherlock? Hey, look at me."

Right. John. It was John. He sounded far away, though. Or maybe Sherlock just couldn't hear past the thumping in his ears.

"Sherlock?"

Right, finding John. John was worrying needlessly. Sherlock, vaguely, wondered if John was cold, too, because it was _so_ freezing that it couldn't have just been a by-product of his own mind. He blinked his eyes open again, squinting against the light and the spinning motion, eventually settling his gaze on the doctor in the room.

"There you are. Sherlock, I need you to drink something." _Dull, boring_, Sherlock wanted to say, but he couldn't find the proper ambition to voice the words. He closed his eyes instead. "Sherlock? No, no, no, I need you to stay awake."

_Go away, John. I want to sleep_, he was thinking. He wasn't entirely sure that he could voice the whole sentence. He didn't really want to bother telling John in the first place, because it didn't matter to John, wouldn't matter, even if John sounded a bit frantic at the thought of Sherlock falling back asleep.

He grumbled unintelligibly when John started prodding at him, shaking his shoulder. "Come on, Sherlock. Drink some water for me."

"No..." he grumbled, reaching around to push John's hand again. "Leave me... alone," he slurred, swallowing. Sluggish, he felt sluggish. Mentally sluggish. He was being inarticulate...

"If I sounded like I was asking, let me make it clear: I wasn't asking. Drink some water."

Sherlock shivered, reaching to grip the blankets when John suddenly pulled them off.

"Sit _up_." Uncharacteristic sharpness to John's voice, unhappiness... Worry, concern...

"It's gone up...?" he mumbled sleepily, making the effort to sit up. It _was_ an effort. He thought he was going to fall backwards again when John splayed his fingers against his back, creating a support.

"Yes. Yes, it's at forty. Drink this." There was a cup pressed to his lips. He leaned back. "Sherlock!" John snapped angrily. Sherlock sighed, raising a hand clumsily to grab the cup. John's fingers didn't let go of it, either, but Sherlock settled for guiding it, at least. "Thank you..." John muttered, after a moment, carefully watching Sherlock.

"Forty isn't..." Sherlock started, but he had to pause to cough, and John interrupted in the pause.

"Forty _is_ bad; don't say that it isn't. Anything above forty and it could cause brain damage; you and I both know that."

Brain damage... Oh. Oh, right, he did know that. Maybe that's why it was getting ever increasingly harder to focus. to function. Of course, he also knew that it was going to take more than a fever to damage _his_ brain...

"John," he rasped, attempting to swing his legs over the side of the bed.

"Wai- What are you doing?"

"Toilet," he responded shortly, closing his eyes on the sudden black spot dancing along the edges of his vision. "I..." he trailed off, swallowing against the rise of nausea. This was unfortunate. Resting was... dull. But movement seemed to end with overwhelming nausea.

"Yes, right, okay. Are you going to be sick again?" John slipped his arm around Sherlock's back, his fingers knitting into the tight cotton of his button-down shirt.

Sherlock hesitated a moment before raising his arm, settling it around John's shoulders. "No..." he muttered, slumping slightly against John when they stood. "Transport's... betraying me..." he muttered, attempting to find his feet to stand on his own.

"Yes, well... if you'd stop- ow- if you'd stop treating your body _like_ transport, it might feel less inclined to rebel now and again- ow, Sherlock, there _is _a wall here, in case you have failed to notice."

"I didn't fail to notice... never fail to notice..." he muttered, removing his arm from John's shoulders. "I'm fine... Go about... your... business," he finished lamely, attempting to have fished for words better suited for the sentence and having failed.

"Sherlock, you are my business. You cannot walk."

"I'm fine," he repeated, clutching at the wall as a support.

"Sherlock-"

"I'd like some tea, doctor," he said quickly, cutting John off.

John watched him for a moment. "Okay. Right. Fine. Don't complain when you fall on your face. But I'm not making you tea. You're getting nothing hot."

Sherlock frowned, shifting his weight and tightening his grip on the countertop. "Ginger ale, then."

"With ice."

"Fine."

"Thank you." With that, John turned and walked out. Sherlock sighed heavily.

After he had relieved his transport of its latest deprecating need and washed his hands, he was faced with the rather real possibility of collapsing if he tried to walk back to his bedroom. His legs were shaking, ashamedly, and it was just his tenacious grip on the countertop that kept him upright. He could just sleep on the bathroom floor- it might actually help, the cool tile instead of blankets- but he figured that he would be extremely uncomfortable and John would yell at him when he found out.

Speaking of John, it didn't take so long to pour a glass of ginger ale and throw some ice in it. Conclusion, he was waiting. Waiting for Sherlock to actually... Well, the doctor was trying to prove a point.

His grip faltered slightly and he nearly fell; he leaned his weight against the counter, trying to ignore the steady thumping of his heartbeat in his ears. He closed his eyes.

"John...!"

Quiet footsteps. Steady, controlled- oh, his _head_. A thousand needles- no- a thousand knives, scraping away at his right temple. He raised a hand blindly to press at the point of pain, forgetting that he had been holding himself up.

The world suddenly rushed past him and even more surprising was the pain that assailed him when he actually hit the ground.

He groaned slightly before clamping his teeth shut. He opened his eyes, which he had squeezed shut against the pain unconsciously, to find John hovering a few feet in front of him.

"What?" John's voice was crisp and brisk. "Something's new."

He wanted to respond. Wanted to say something about how hitting the floor probably hadn't been beneficial, how John should be doing his job. How, yes, the headache had taken on a new extreme, but he'd just take paracetamol and sleep it off. Wanted to say that he thought he might vomit again, or how his eyes were starting to burn- wait, were his eyes tearing up because of the pain? That was new; he was exceedingly tolerate to any sort of pain-

He closed his eyes again.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, look at me. Talk to me. What's happening?"

"_Please_," he spat, biting off the word like it was poison. Because that was the word that John had been waiting for, wasn't it? Please, John, help me. Please, because I'm too _sick_ to do _anything_. Please, John, make the fever go away... 'Please' was a sign of weakness, and Sherlock hated the word.

But, then again, from John's new tone of voice, perhaps 'please' hadn't been the word he was looking for, anyway.

"Shit... I need to call the hospital or-or Mycroft, at least-"

Sherlock wrenched his eyes open. "_No_."

"Sherlock-"

"No," he repeated. He struggled to find his bearings past the mind-numbing pain growing in his head. He wouldn't go to a hospital and he most certainly wouldn't let Mycroft know he was ill. He would rather-

He squeezed his eyes shut hard, blinking against the pain.

"Sleep," he stated.

"Sherlock, are you hearing yourself? You're ill with- I don't even know! It could be progressing to pneumonia, for all I know! You need medical attention, well, more medical attention that I can give you."

"_Sleep_," he stressed, managing to push himself up slightly. John, thankfully, took over from there, taking most of his weight as, together, they got Sherlock back to his feet. "Just... let me..." he trailed off. Pain again. Daggers in his mind. What was he saying?

"Sleep," John said.

Sherlock glanced at him briefly. "What?"

"'Just let me sleep.' That's what you were trying to say?"

"Yes... Yes, of course," he muttered. "Obviously."

He carefully crawled back into bed, resisting the urge to just fall onto the duvet again. That would probably do more harm than good, especially from the bruise he thought might be forming from scraping his arm on the drawer handle when he'd fallen. He reached for the blankets but, when he couldn't find them, realized that John had whisked them off the bed entirely.

"What... _are_... you doing?" he muttered, looking at him.

"Sherlock, you can't be covered up. You are _too_ hot. You need to take those clothes off, too. They can't be comfortable and it's not helping."

"Connotation..." Sherlock muttered.

"I don't care about the connotation right now."

"That's a first..." he murmured, rubbing an arm across his eyes. Oh, he wanted to sleep. It was too cold, and he wanted to sleep...

Movement across his chest. He flinched automatically, moving his arm to see the world again. John was watching him warily, his fingers working against the buttons on Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock frowned. "Leave it."

"Well, you won't do it!" John said quickly, dropping his gaze back to the buttons. "You're always so damn stubborn... it wouldn't kill you to just... _work_ with people." He wrenched the last button free. "Sit up."

"You make everything so awkward..."

"Well, I'm _sorry_. Connotation or not, I usually don't undress my patients. Sit up."

Sherlock sighed. John was going to kill him. Going to kill him with this constant wake up, go to sleep, sit up, lay down...

John offered a hand. Sherlock took it.

"Thank you," John said, slipping Sherlock's shirt off.

"Can I sleep now?" Sherlock griped, shivering as John walked past, creating a breeze.

"No." Sherlock suddenly received a face-full of fabric- his pyjama pants. "Put those on. I'm not doing it."

"Cheers," he muttered. "Thanks for that... small amount of privacy..." he coughed, almost smiling despite the pain the motion brought.

John watched him for a moment before shaking his head, walking to the hall. "Just change your pants, Sherlock. You're smiling. I'm concerned about your mental health."

Sherlock laughed slightly, rubbing at his forehead again.

* * *

**Sherlock's not getting better. In fact, he's getting rather worse, but, you know, at least this chapter ends with a nice picture: Sherlock laughing. Even if he is laughing from... illness. Being... somewhat out of his mind palace. Unable to find his bearings- Okay, I'll shut up. **

**Keep the reviews coming, please and thanks. :3 I love your support.**

**Btw- new pen name, if anyone's interested, is from _Third Star_, as is my avatar. I don't dislike the name Summer now, nor do I care less for _Sherlock_. _Third Star_ just really hit me and... yeah. Either way, I'm supporting Benny. /hopeless**

**ALSO. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ANDREW SCOTT. It wouldn't be _Sherlock_ without you! Although, now the question is... Who will be Sherlock's nemesis in the upcoming series'? xD **


	6. Crescendo and Diminuendo

**6**

Pyjama pants did not help a fever.

John was wrong. As usual, John was wrong.

Pyjamas did not help a fever.

Pyjamas most certainly did not help a migraine.

The pain in his head had bloomed into something totally unrecognizable- he never got migraines, _ever_- but it had to be a migraine. There was nothing else that it _could_ be. The pain had gone from needles to knives, and he was pretty sure that _something_ was trying to carve into his brain. The pain had moved from the right side of his temple, spreading slowly to the general right side of his head. It had taken two hours before Sherlock decided to bring it to John's attention. He only decided to because his vision was starting to blur, turning fuzzy.

"John...?" he ground out, flinching at the sound of his own voice. It had been completely silent and rather dark- it had to be near night time, although he was unsure how long he had actually been asleep- and now his own voice made his headache worsen.

Not ten seconds later, John appeared in the doorway. Sherlock thought he looked tired.

"Yes?"

Sherlock waved a hand uselessly, bringing his fingers to press against his eyes.

"What?"

"Migraine..." he muttered. "Can't see..."

"What?" John's voice raised half an octave. Sherlock felt like he was either going to pass out or be sick. John seemed to notice, and he lowered his voice. "You need to explain to me what you mean."

"... It's a migraine, John. Has to be. My right eye, vision's gone funny. Blurry."

"The pain is occurring on the right side of your head?" John sank onto the edge of the bed. "May I?"

"Touching it isn't going to help," Sherlock snapped, flinching at the pain in his throat. He really had to learn to lower his voice.

"Yeah, you need to stay calm, Sherlock. Your fever's only down probably because it's so early in the morning and you're pumped full of paracetamol." John reached out a hand gingerly; Sherlock caught his gaze briefly before John carefully placed his fingers against Sherlock's temple.

John's fingers were cold- Sherlock was morbidly unsure _how_ he could still feel cold after being so cold for this long- but John's fingers were freezing. The pressure he was exerting was extremely light, very careful. His eyes kept flickering from his work to Sherlock's eyes. He was worried. Always worrying...

Sherlock closed his eyes.

"Sorry," John said quickly.

"What?" he muttered, frowning as John removed his fingers. "No, it feels... nice..."

"Oh." A pause. Sherlock didn't open his eyes. "Did you want ice...?"

"Not particularly."

Another pause. "Okay." A third pause. John's fingers hesitantly slipped back into his hair. Sherlock sighed imperceptibly. "Sherlock?"

"Don't talk," he muttered, raising his arm to place it over his eyes again. Their fingers brushed. He curled his fingers into his palm to avoid disturbing John's gentle massaging.

Another _long_ pause.

"Sherlock, go back to sleep."

He was already half asleep by the time John said that.

* * *

He was woken up by the pain.

He immediately sat straight up and vomited over the nearest thing, which happened to be the duvet, spluttering and gagging and gasping for breath.

The pain was incapacitating- his ground his teeth together and squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his fingers against his eyes and trying to breathe evenly.

It took him a solid minute to realize that John was sitting next to him, his fingers awkwardly placed on his shoulder. It took him another thirty seconds to realize that _John was sitting next to him_ and _he had just vomited all over the bed_.

He flinched out of John's reach, shrinking in on himself against the pain.

"Sherlock, it's okay. It's the headache, isn't it?" John's voice was worried, but not disgusted. Which was one of the main emotions that Sherlock was feeling now, disgusted. "Nausea and vomiting occur all the time with migra-"

"_Don't_," Sherlock said calmly, although his voice bordered on something dangerous. He hadn't intended it to. It just- his head _hurt_-

He took a deep breath and attempted to steel himself against another rush of pain, but the throbbing seemed to be hitting every part of his body, wracking it. He gagged again, feeling bile against the back of his throat and wondering how the _hell_ he could still be _able_ to be sick.

"Oh, shit..." John fumbled for a moment before producing the bin from earlier, shoving it into Sherlock's arms. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock dropped his forehead against the edge of trash bin, ignoring the spike of pain to the best of his ability. "For... what..." he muttered, in between breaths.

"I can't help. I-I mean, there's no cure for a migraine, the most I can do is attempt to battle your fever but I'm afraid to do anything with you right now, because there's all these little triggers for migraines-"

"John..." he breathed, exhaling his flatmate's name breathlessly. John was rambling. He was clearly upset. It probably had something to do with his being a doctor and being not able to help, having to watch someone, a patient, suffer. John hated that. He was... upset...

Sherlock groaned, gritting his teeth against the pain.

"I feel so helpless...!"

Sherlock flinched at John's outburst, drawing his arm around his head.

"Sorry, I'm sorry..." John exhaled heavily.

There was the makings of a swear word on the tip of his tongue, but he held back the expletive in favour of not lowering himself further. Cursing was a small mind trying to prove a bigger point. He didn't need cursing. Besides, John would be more upset. John would think that Sherlock was upset with him, and he really _wasn't_; he was grateful, in fact, but everything was just _throbbing_-

Pressure on the top of his head. Fingers tangling in his hair. John's hand.

What was that supposed to do? What was that...? Sentiment? Sentiment, had to be sentiment. Like... comfort or something. Had to be, correct? John was the master of all things sentiment, except his dating skills were less than rudimentary...

Sherlock sighed heavily, not raising his head from the rim of the trash bin.

* * *

The pain lasted for three hours, after the initial two. Five hour migraine. John had said something about how he was probably going to experience postdrome now. More pain. Less painful, but it was still more pain.

The majority of the pain had vanished. Gone away. Left him feeling weak and sick. There were still sharp, stabbing moments, though.

The latest flash of pain left the world blurring, but for a different reason. His eyes stung. Warmth on his cheeks. Belatedly, he realized that his eyes were watering.

He dashed the tears away irritably. Eyes watering because of pain. What next?

"You can have another dose of paracetamol."

"Good," he breathed, struggling to sit up. "How long does this last for?"

"Postdrome? Hard to say," John muttered, passing the paracetamol to Sherlock. "Malaise and cognitive difficulties could last for days..."

"Not for me..." he muttered, placing the pills on his tongue and taking a large gulp of water.

"You need to go back to sleep, if you can."

Sherlock huffed lightly. "I don't want to sleep. I feel better."

"Your fever has dipped back to what it was, but, like I said, it's only ten in the morning. Fevers peak in the evening, lessen in the morning. Sleeping isn't going to hurt."

"Well," Sherlock stated, settling his head back against the pillow carefully and placing his arm back over his eyes, "I'm not tired."

It was a total and utter lie. He imagined that John could see through that as well. John wasn't that clueless.

Plus, he knew that he only felt better because of the paracetamol, because of the morning hours. He knew he'd feel _terrible_ later, but now he almost felt like continuing the experiment he had in the kitchen-

Except he also knew that John wouldn't let him.

Not to mention the crippling exhaustion he was _really_ feeling. It was probably part of the postdrome stage of the migraine. Everything still sort of... ached.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"Did you want anything?"

"If I did, I'd tell you."

"No, you wouldn't."

"Yeah, I wouldn't."

John laughed slightly, although Sherlock couldn't tell if he was exasperated or genuinely amused.

"Are you sure you don't want something? Applesauce? You have to be hungry."

Correct. He _was_ marginally hungry, but the repeated episodes that he'd been having throughout his illness made him not want to eat anything for a few days. Unfortunately, he didn't think he could swing that this time.

"Aren't you-" he cleared his throat, swallowing against the pain afterwards- "supposed to, I don't know, feed a cold and starve a fever?"

John looked at him, seeming surprised.

"What?" Sherlock asked irritably.

"I'm just surprised that you know an old proverb." John stood. "But it's just applesauce. Not like you're having a steak dinner. Be right back."

Sherlock watched him go before turning his attention back to the ceiling.

John was entirely too tolerant. He didn't know _how_, and he didn't know _why_, but he had long ago decided that John Watson was part of a mystery that he would never figure it. It probably had a lot to do with sentiment, because John _was_ a very sentimental person. Sherlock would never understand that amount of sentiment, and thus, he had dubbed it unnecessary to think about.

Except, he did think about it.

Quite a lot, actually.

John Watson was a mystery that he couldn't figure out. That was part of the intrigue that Sherlock felt towards John. Part of the intrigue that had confused him from the second day that he had met him. It still almost baffled him- how John could say _fantastic_ or _amazing_ when everyone else just said _freak_. It was nice, a nice change, and it didn't make sense, but Sherlock had learned to deal with it. One mystery that he had learned not to worry about solving because, if he solved it, it definitely wouldn't be the same.

Didn't mean that he didn't think about it.

"Alright, applesauce and ginger ale and then you're going to go back to sleep."

Sherlock's gaze flickered to John once again, who was balancing a spoon, an applesauce cup, and a mug between his two hands. Sherlock almost laughed, if he would have felt like it.

"You try to do too much at once," he said instead.

John glanced up at him absently. "Oh yeah. Says you. The Master of Multitasking." John sat the mug down carefully.

"I'm able to handle it."

"So am I!" John protested. There was a sharp clatter that made his head throb again as John dropped the spoon onto the floor. He gave Sherlock a sharp look before stooping to pick it up. "Don't say anything," he warned.

"Hmm." Sherlock smirked as he took the spoon and applesauce cup from John.

"Don't smirk at me, Sherlock Holmes," John muttered, sinking onto the edge of the bed again. "I'm going to sit here and make sure you don't choke."

"Why would I choke? It's just applesauce," he muttered, peeling the top back. "Boring applesauce."

"Just eat it, Sherlock."

"Whatever you say, Doctor Watson."

* * *

**I dearly wish to hear Sherlock call John 'Doctor Watson' now.**

**Sorry for the slight delay. Brain was demanding angst, so I was working on some angsty _Cabin Pressure_. Sherlock's fever's gone down a bit- it's morning!- so he's marginally better. But it's not the end of his illness... [I realize he probably wouldn't be up to almost arguing just from his fever going down, but... for the point of the fanfic, he is!]**

**Your reviews are lovely. I'm grateful to all of my fans. I love to hear your thoughts. Thank you.**


	7. Embarrassment at Forty Point Two Celsius

**7**

"John..." he murmured. "John..."

He snaked his fingers up to his head, knitting his fingers into his hair. Pain... too much pain...

"John..." he repeated, squeezing his eyes shut. He ought to stop repeating John's name. Where was the point? John was somewhere else... not in Sherlock's room... and Sherlock couldn't bring his voice above a whisper.

Pain.

His head was throbbing. Dark spots were creeping in front of his eyes in time to the pounding in his head and he blinked them away irritably. He couldn't pass out. He thought that there might be something bad in that.

His throat felt raw. That fact didn't make much sense in itself, seeing as how he had been asleep, rarely talking, and he hadn't even been sick in the the last few hours. He couldn't swallow; technically speaking, he could, except it _hurt_-

"... at me. _Sherlock_."

Sherlock realized that someone, probably John, was speaking to him. He wrenched his eyes open, staring warily up towards John. It was amazing. John was always there. Sherlock could barely speak, barely get John's name off his lips without breaking the silence, but John was always there.

John looked fainted annoyed. Moreso worried. Sherlock realized, belatedly again, that John was speaking.

"_Talk_. Tell me something," John was saying. "_Sherlock_."

"... John," he muttered, almost moaning his flatmate's name. His voice was gravelly. His throat hurt...

"Okay. Good. I'm here."

Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed again. He was too tired to keep them open.

There was something saying _keep your eyes open, Sherlock Holmes_. There was definitely something demanding that he do that. It may have been John demanding that of him, to be honest, but Sherlock wasn't entirely sure. He couldn't really... focus...

"Sherlock."

John's voice was far-away, distant, and majorly concerned. Sherlock definitely wanted to tell him to stop worrying; it was annoying. He couldn't find the strength to open his eyes again, let alone open his mouth.

There was something against his lips. He caught John saying something about his temperature, so Sherlock assumed, slowly, that it was the thermometer. He sighed lightly, letting his lips part and the medical instrument slip under his tongue.

Fever... Fever, right, he had a fever. It had gone down. But, it had to be back up now. He had a feeling that he had been asleep for awhile, so it wasn't morning. Afternoon, perhaps? It could not be evening yet. Nonetheless, his fever was back up. Dangerously high. It had to be.

His body trembled hard from a cold chill. The motion sent pain shooting through every nerve ending. He inhaled with a slight gasp, noting that the thermometer started to beep at the exact time. Perhaps for the best.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, what hurts?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth together, folding his arm over his eyes. He wondered, vaguely, if this was what a murder victim felt like right before they died.

He shivered hard again. He bit his tongue against the rush of pain this time. He tasted blood a moment later.

"Oh..."

Sherlock barely heard John's slight inhale of breath. It didn't bode well.

"What?" he spat, his fingernails biting into his scalp to distract him against the building pain. The throbbing noise. Like a drum. Impairing his thought process.

"Your fever... It's at forty point two..." John paused for a moment.

Sherlock could anticipate his next thought. "No."

"Sherlock, it's-it's at forty point _two_."

"No hospitals..." Sherlock muttered, shivering yet again. "Fine..." He coughed, his fingernails biting harder into his scalp at the resulting pain tearing down his throat. It travelled straight down to his chest, settling into a ball of grinding pain.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock waved his fingers slightly, in a general go-away motion. Even if he had been calling for John out of reflex, he didn't want anything to do with the doctor if he was going to try to force him into a hospital bed.

"Sherlock, _please_." John's voice broke.

Interesting

, Sherlock thought to himself, twisting his fingers into his hair, _John's sentiment is breaking him down_. It was an interesting concept, Sherlock supposed, but... He sighed heavily. He couldn't... think.

"My mind palace is..." he paused, fishing for a word, "is deteriorating..."

"Sherlock, we need-" John paused. "Well, I don't know what we need to do rather than get your fever down."

Sherlock gave a noncommental grunt, pressing his fingers against his eyelids.

"Okay. Okay," John repeated. "Okay, get up."

At this, Sherlock peered over his arm. "What...?" Get up? Get _up_? He didn't want to move at all, let alone _get up_. It sounded like a terrible idea to him, except... he couldn't exactly trust his mind right now.

And that was the most frightening part of it all.

"Get up. You need to have a shower." John pulled Sherlock's arms away from his head. "Sit up. _Sit_."

"No, thanks," he mumbled, trying to cover his eyes again.

"It's not an option. I'm not asking." Sherlock was suddenly subjected to the world shifting. It took him a moment a moment to realize that John was pulling him up, and that it _hurt_.

"Ow, stop it," he hissed, pulling his arm away from John. "Let me go back to sleep..."

"Shower. _Now_." John's demanding voice again. Doctor voice. An order.

"Too tired..." he murmured, reaching for the pillow again.

"Okay. Bath, then." John paced away. "I'll run water. Stay awake."

Staying awake didn't seem to be a good choice, nor one that was particularly pleasant. Sherlock flopped back onto the blankets, pressing his arm over his eyes again. He would much rather sleep; he couldn't feel the pain of the illness while he was asleep.

What seemed like seconds, but was actually probably several minutes of half asleep stupour, later, John was shaking him awake again.

"... you not to go back to sleep. Get up."

"No," he replied curtly, trying to pull the blankets over his head.

John grabbed his wrist. "You are a getting a bath."

"Stop trying to..." he trailed off, losing his train of thought. He was tired. His brain wasn't working correctly.

There were suddenly arms around his middle. Sherlock had a slight moment of panic and the notion to argue when he was suddenly, once again, subjected to the world whirling. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before he blinked them open again, suddenly finding himself in John's arms and above the world.

"Put... me down...!" he demanded. "John!"

To be completely and utterly frank, he was just the slightest bit surprised. Even if John was trying to prove a point, to get Sherlock to take a bath, Sherlock hadn't expected John to actually _do_ anything about it. Like picking him up. Carrying him, stumbling, into the bathroom.

John stumbled into the wall. "Jeez, Sherlock..." he breathed. Sherlock had been set on struggling against John's arms, but now instead locked his fingers tightly around John's arm just in case the latter was liable to drop him. "For never eating... you are _heavy_." John took another step, finding his balance, carrying on into the bathroom.

Sherlock had decided then that he wasn't going to struggle, because he felt like hitting the floor would be... unpleasant. Just... just mildly so. His entire body ached now as it was. However, he was vaguely interested in how the tips of his ears felt hot, compared to the rest of his freezing body, almost as though he were embarrassed. Annoyed, yes. Surprised, marginally. Embarrassed? He didn't get embarrassed.

John shifted his hold on Sherlock. "I'm going to put you down..."

"Really?" he asked with sarcasm, gripping tightly onto John's arm as the doctor carefully set him on his feet. His legs were going to have none of this standing lark, however, it seemed, and he ended up half clinging to John and half clinging to the countertop in order to keep himself on his feet.

"Careful..." John murmured, gripping Sherlock's arm. His eyes were worried.

It really wasn't necessary to worry that much. It just wasn't.

Sherlock leaned back against the counter, releasing his grip on John and closing his eyes. He vaguely felt like he was about to be sick again. Too much activity, he was sure...

"Can you manage on your own or...?" John trailed off. Sherlock opened his eyes again, looking back at John. John gestured helplessly towards the bath, looking back at him afterwards.

"Oh," Sherlock said after a moment. "I can manage."

John didn't move. The concern in his eyes was making Sherlock feel even more sick.

"Really, John..." he muttered, carefully removing his fingers from the countertop and fumbling for the drawstring of his trousers. "I'll... be fine..." he finished, clumsily untying the drawstring and looping his fingers against the waistband to pull them down.

John's face tinged pink as he quickly looked through the door to Sherlock's bedroom. "You'll understand if I'm hesitant to leave you..."

Sherlock chose not to answer, instead stumbling the few steps to the bath and stepping into it.

His feet were immediately assailed by ice cold water.

The swear word from before actually vocalized itself this time.

"What?" John asked quickly. His voice was panicky.

"I-It's cold...!"

"Oh. No, no, it's just lukewarm. Trust me."

"Trust _m-me_," he stammered, slumping against the wall and refusing to sit down into the frigid water. "I-It's cold."

"It just feels cold to you. I couldn't actually put you into a cold bath. That would be... unhealthy."

Sherlock paused for a moment longer before gingerly sliding down into the water.

Definitely not a good idea.

Didn't trust John.

John was wrong.

It was freezing.

He clenched his teeth, trying to stop them from the chattering they were insistent on doing. Goosebumps had sprang up where the water touched him. He curled his hands into fists.

It was good. It had to be good. Right. Because his body was too hot. Anything cooler than his body temperature would help. Had to help. Would fix his fever. Get his brain working again.

He shivered so hard that it probably could have been considered a convulsion.

"Sorry." When Sherlock glanced absently towards the sound of John's voice, he found John leaning back against the countertop. He was staring determinedly at a point just over Sherlock's head. His face was red. "It's really not that cold. I made sure. But I don't know what else to do..."

Sherlock shifted a bit, only the slightest hitch in his breathing giving away to the level of cold he felt when the water rushed up over his chest. He settled back, resting his head against the wall as he focused on breathing normally.

"John," he said after a few moments of letting his body get (somewhat) used to the temperature.

"Yeah?"

"Why-Why are you em-embarrassed?"

"Huh?" Their eyes met for a moment before John once again quickly looked back to the wall. "I'm not embarrassed."

"Y-You're red in the face," Sherlock said stubbornly. "Y-You- oh, hell." He took a deep breath and focused on not stuttering before picking up the sentence. "You won't meet my gaze. A-And _I'm_ the one who is naked, so I don't-"

"Sorry, Sherlock, I don't care to, erm, _observe_ everything like you do," John interrupted evenly. "Not to mention the fact that people already talk as it is."

"Oh..." It was more an exhale of breath than a solid realization, because he still didn't understand it. It was trivial. But, he had been told before that he had a complete lack of and disregard for privacy, so perhaps that was why he didn't quite understand. Perhaps it was just the fever. Part of him suspected that he didn't get it simply because he didn't really care.

He closed his eyes. He was still shivering, but it had become somewhat tolerable. He just focused on not moving, not letting the water rush around him and cascade on otherwise dry parts of his body again.

He was tired. He probably could have fallen asleep then and there if he hadn't been so cold. The cold was the one redeeming factor keeping him awake. Perhaps it was a good thing. John might have gotten more upset if he fell asleep in the bath...

"I'll be back in a second," John said. Sherlock didn't both to open his eyes again.

... John really was a good doctor. However he found the patience, Sherlock had no idea.

"Drink. Please." True to his word, John was back only seconds later. Sherlock opened his eyes to find John offering him a bottle of water. The doctor was still staring at the wall.

Sherlock had the childish notion to laugh. He ignored it, settled for smirking, and took the ice-cold bottle.

Moving that slightest amount jostled the water and it rushed up to his neck again. He closed his eyes for a brief moment before unscrewing the cap off of the bottle, pressing it to his lips. Steeling himself. More cold. He closed his eyes and let the water rush into his mouth. Yes, ice cold. He didn't doubt it this time. Refreshing to a point, but also mind-numbing cold.

He only paused in drinking when he ran out of breath.

"I didn't say you had to drink it all," John muttered.

Sherlock gave a half shrug and screwed the cap back onto the bottle, carefully setting it on the edge of the bathtub.

Silence descended for awhile. Sherlock's perception of time was skewed, so he couldn't honestly guess how many minutes had went by. Probably not a long by the time that John drew him out of his semi-relaxing state by uttering his name. Sherlock glanced towards him questioningly.

"I think you should probably get out now."

"Fine." He sat up abruptly, the water cascading down his back and chest, dripping quietly into the collected water in the back. He ignored the temperature difference- water and air- fumbling to push himself to his feet and grab the towel. He wrapped it around himself tightly, shivering again as he stepped out of the bath.

"I'll just be right in your room," John said, casting a quick glance at him before exiting the bathroom.

Sherlock dried off, using the countertop as support once again, re-clothing his bottom half again afterwards. He grabbed the water bottle and, taking a deep breath, drank the rest of it down before stumbling his way back to his bedroom.

"Right... Lay down, no blankets," John said, stepping out of the way. Sherlock gave him a dirty look. It was too cold to not have blankets, especially after that bath that John had insisted he take. "Just until your fever goes down. I have got to make sure it drops, Sherlock."

Sherlock scoffed quietly, brushing by John and once again taking a seat on the bed. He was still shivering. John watched him for a moment before walking out of Sherlock's line of sight, reappearing back a moment later with Sherlock's otherwise-designated-as-pyjama-shirt shirt.

"Shirt at least, then. I can't stand to stand here and watch you shiver yourself to sleep..."

"H-How considerate," Sherlock muttered, fumbling to get his arms through the correct sleeves.

"I thought so," John replied. "Back to sleep, then, Sherlock..."

"I'm always sleeping..." Sherlock complained, but curled up in bed once again. "I'm too tired..."

"It's just the fever..."

"I know," he replied dryly. He paused for a moment before closing his eyes. "John?"

"Hm?"

"... Thank you."

There was a long pause before John finally responded. "Seriously, just go back to sleep."

Sherlock was helpless to ignore his doctor's orders.

* * *

**Sherlock's pretty sick, so keep that in mind before you wonder why it got a bit less... this-is-my-sociopathic-mask-that-I-wear-all-the-time in this chapter. **

**Always eager to hear your thoughts. Thanks!**


	8. You Need Sleep! No, YOU Need Sleep!

**8**

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock opened one eye, not moving his arm from his other one. It was later, later in the evening. He didn't know how he could sleep so much and _still_ be tired. He wasn't going to sleep for a week after he was well enough to actually get out of bed.

"What?" he muttered.

"Your fever's gone down..." John was whispering.

"And?" Sherlock replied, removing his arm. He blinked hard, removing his arm. "I was asleep, John," he stated bluntly, sitting up. "You tell me to sleep and then you wake me up."

"Sorry. You've been asleep for a few hours." Sherlock blinked slightly at that statement, but John carried on without noticing. "I figured you might want to have more medicine and get something to drink or something..."

"John..." he muttered, leaning back against the headboard. "I'm only going to say this once, and never again, so, listen. I want to sleep," he said calmly, only pausing to yawn afterwards.

"I know. Sorry. But I figured while it was down again..."

Sherlock carded his fingers through his hair, ruffling it up. He felt generally unsettled, uncharacteristically weak, and annoyingly tired. He was pleased that he didn't seem to be shivering, for now, although his shirt was sticking to his back with sweat.

"Has it broken?" he questioned, peeling his shirt away from his skin with an air of disgust. Disgusting.

"Not quite... It's at thirty-nine even. The bath helped..."

Sherlock noted the exhaustion in John's voice and looked towards the doctor. "Have you slept?"

John blinked slowly, as if he didn't fully understand the question. "What?"

"Have you slept?" Sherlock repeated with mock patience, glancing towards the window. It was dark out. Probably around midnight or one in the morning.

"Uh, yeah. A bit. Not too much. I'm okay."

"Go to sleep."

"No."

"John. The fever's down. Go sleep."

"I'm okay."

Sherlock stared up at John evenly, even if the effect was somewhat lessened by the fact that he was sitting and John was standing. "Go rest. The last thing I need is your immune system crashing, thus you catching this illness."

"If I catch it, I catch it. I've been surrounded by your germs for the past few days, anyway."

"You need to sleep."

"You never sleep."

Sherlock gave a slight huff, his even gaze turning into a slight glare. He would outright tell John to leave if he pushed him that far. Sherlock was craving the silence of his own room, his own thoughts, his own mind. He was grateful for John, but he could only handle so much of constant supervision. Now that he was feeling potentially better, he wanted time to _think_. He hadn't been thinking enough. He wanted to think and he wanted to sleep a bit, and maybe have a cup of tea. He looked towards John again.

"Tea."

"Huh?"

"I want tea," he said stubbornly.

"You still have a temperature."

"I want tea," he repeated.

John assessed him for a moment before sighing, all will to argue leaving him. It was a remarkable difference; his eyes lost their demanding spark, looked away. His shoulders slumped, his entire body losing the tension that had held his back ramrod straight. He raised a hand and pressed his fingers wearily against his eyes. "Fine. I'll get you some tea."

"And then go to bed."

"I don't want to sleep, Sherlock. I'm not going to sleep when you're sick," John said tartly, slinking for the door.

"You need to sleep," Sherlock said again, stretching slightly. "You're normal; you need sleep."

John muttered something as he exited the room, although Sherlock didn't catch it. He rolled his eyes and stretched his arms far above his head, yawning widely. He ran his fingers through his hair again, kicking the blanket off. He hauled himself to his feet, carefully gripping the headboard of his bedframe just in case. He was quite steady on his feet. Not that he didn't feel sick, because he did, but he did feel better than he had. There wasn't much that could get worse than he had felt, to be quite honest. His fever was almost back to what it had been on the initial afternoon that he had gotten ill. He was generally pleased with his state of health, fever or not.

"What are you doing?" John asked, looking up as Sherlock stepped into the kitchen. The floor was cold and he was regretting not having socks on, but he would nip back to the bedroom before long anyway.

"I'm walking," Sherlock replied shortly. He pulled the fridge open. "Now I'm looking for something to eat."

The door snapped shut moments later. Sherlock looked towards John accusingly, who had his hand flat against the door as having closed it.

"I'll make you toast."

"_I'll_ make toast; you go sleep, John."

"I don't want to sleep, Sherlock."

"I insist, _John_."

"Really, Sherlock. Go back to bed."

"_You_ go to bed," he countered.

"I'm not going to bed." John turned back to the kettle, pouring out two cups of tea. "You're going to take this tea and go back to bed. I'm going to make toast."

"I'll take the tea," Sherlock said, reaching around John to grab a teacup.

"Go back to _bed_," John said sharply, gripping his wrist.

Tea slopped over the cup and splashed onto his fingers. It was unpleasantly hot.

John swore lightly, grabbing the teacup from Sherlock and setting it down. "You are so irritating!" John said hotly, grabbing Sherlock's wrist again and all but dragging him the short distance to the sink, wrenching the tap on. Sherlock's (recently burning) fingers were subjected to cold water.

"I didn't spill tea on myself!" he retorted, staring down at John.

"Well, if you wouldn't be so pushy... _How_ are you so pushy? You're still so _ill_," John muttered.

Sherlock shrugged slightly, watching the water cascade over his fingers. "I suppose it's in my blood."

"_Something's_ in your blood..." John muttered, turning off the water. "Now, please stop arguing, take your tea, and at least sit down."

"Right. Fine," he muttered, flicking water droplets from his fingers. He took the teacup again (carefully, and paying more attention to John's movements), blowing on the surface of the tea before taking a sip. It was wonderful. He sighed quietly.

A gentle smile lifted John's lips before the doctor turned back to the countertop. Sherlock didn't miss the smile, but he didn't comment on it, either. Instead, he just traipsed back to the bedroom, sipping at his tea.

He trailed to his window, pushing the curtains out of the way. There were white flakes of fluffy snow gently drifting towards the ground. He raised an eyebrow in surprise. Usually, the snow in London (rare as it was) melted before Londoners really had a chance to enjoy (or loath) it, but it was sticking on the ground. He suddenly wondered if John had noticed the snow at all, or if he had been too busy taking care of Sherlock.

"John," he said, turning when the doctor walked back into the room, "have you seen the snow?"

"Snow?" John looked across the room at him. "It snowed today? I haven't even been by a window..." John joined Sherlock at the window, holding the other set of curtains out of the way. "Snow..."

Sherlock gave John a sidelong glance, assessing the doctor's expression for a moment. He was exhausted; whether or not John admitted it, he was. But there was a new light, a gentle happiness gleaming in his eyes as he looked down towards the alley. It was the snow. John loved the snow. He didn't say it out loud, but the excess of smiling that he did proved it. The small smile that just barely lifted his lips as he watched the white flakes cascade towards the ground showed a different side to John. A calm, tranquil side to the ever-tense doctor.

He ran the doctor ragged, didn't he?

John looked at him, the smile turning into an annoyed frown as he noticed Sherlock looking at him. Sherlock looked back to the window, raising his teacup to his lips.

"You enjoy the snow," he said before taking a drink.

John seemed surprised. "Yes."

Sherlock watched the snow fall for a moment longer. "Why?" he said shortly.

John had looked back at the window, but now looked back at Sherlock. "Why what?"

"Why do you like the snow?"

John stared at him. "You... I mean, it's majestic and powerful and beautiful. And just as deadly, in some circumstances. Not that that's a good thing," he added quickly.

Sherlock smirked slightly. He dropped the curtains, grabbing a piece of toast from the plate John was holding before moving away from the window. His head was starting to pound again. He took another large gulp of his tea, biting into the toast afterwards. He chewed for a moment, sending a contemplative gaze towards John again before sitting down.

"I'm guessing you don't like the snow."

"I am indifferent either way," he said, taking another bite of his toast. "It's majestic, like you say, but it's also very dreadful when one has to venture out into it."

"Well, you won't have to worry about venturing into it." John watched him as he crunched on his own piece of toast. "Oh, by the way, Lestrade texted you. Said 'Thanks for the case help'. Also mentioned 'Thanks for the germs'. I think you've gotten him ill."

Sherlock paused mid-crunch, flickering his gaze to John again. "He has my flu?" With the statement came a certain twinge of smugness- served Lestrade right for bothering him when he was busy being ill.

"Don't sound so happy."

"Well, he was in my face. Assuming I was on drugs," he scoffed, polishing off the last of his piece of toast.

"Well, to be fair, you normally don't act different. And you're rarely sick, I'd imagine, so what else would he think?"

"The correct assumption, frankly," Sherlock replied, drinking the rest of his tea and flopping back onto the bed. The motion redoubled the pain in his head and he resisted the urge to flinch. Sitting quietly led him to forget that he was still ill. Hopefully the nausea just stayed away this time. He rather wanted to avoid that situation again. "I'm going back to sleep," he said simply, grabbing the blanket and pulling it up to his chin.

"Symptoms still bugging you?"

"Headache," he replied shortly.

"Anything else?"

"Body hurts. Most likely muscle aches from the shivering." His voice was half-muffled into the pillow.

"Nauseous?"

"No."

"Sore throat?"

"Not at the moment. Tea and all."

"Cough, runny nose, stuffy nose?"

"No," Sherlock stressed irritably. "But I am tired, John, if you would be so kind as to leave me alone."

A pause. "Right."

Another pause. Sherlock knew John was still there. He raised his head, fixing John with a level stare. "Go to bed."

John looked at him for a moment before shrugging. "Fine. If you insist. I'll be upstairs... Text me if you need me, okay?"

"Yes, fine," Sherlock muttered absently, placing his head back on the pillow. "Goodnight, John."

"Sweet dreams." John's tone was mindless. "Erm, I meant-"

"Yes, I know what you meant. Now, please, go to bed."

"... Right."

John left the room and, in the now silence of his bedroom, Sherlock laughed quietly to himself. Good, old John.

They both really needed some sleep.

* * *

**Shorter chapter is shorter. Some John and Sherlock fluffy stuff. Some John and Sherlock bantering. Some John and Sherlock being exhausted [mainly John]. Some overall cuteness, in my opinion. **

**Your thoughts would be lovely to hear, as usual. I appreciate all the reviews. =3 Thanks!**


	9. Tea and the Shopping

Sherlock rolled over, yawning widely as he did so. He immediately deduced that he'd been asleep for a 'normal' amount of time, probably anywhere from eight to ten hours. It was morning, probably anywhere from seven to nine o' clock. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes, flicking his gaze towards the clock. He was correct. It was seven-thirty in the morning, and he'd been asleep for nearly nine hours.

He raised a hand, rubbing his eyes wearily. He felt like he'd been sleeping for a very long time, not that he was particularly refreshed. He didn't feel terrible, though. He was sweaty and feeling disgusting in that respect, but, otherwise, his head had stopped hurting and moving about didn't bring back the remembered edge of pain.

He sat up, running his fingers through his hair. A moment later, he scowled; remembered he hadn't washed his hair in at least two days, even if he had had a bath the night before. So then, the first item on his mental to-do list was to get a shower.

Sherlock stood, yawned again, and walked into the bathroom.

He avoided very hot water during his shower, instead keeping it just warm enough to tolerate. He was sure that his fever had broken, but he didn't want to take any chance of the illness returning.

He redressed in his pyjama pants and a clean t-shirt, towel drying his hair vigourously afterwards. He was just in the middle of brushing his teeth when John's voice filtered through the noise of the sink tap running.

"I thought I heard you rummaging around."

Sherlock barely spared him a glance before spitting toothpaste into the sink, cupping his hands under the water for lack of a glass to rinse his mouth out with. He swished the water about his mouth for a moment before spitting that out as well, grabbing the towel to wipe his mouth.

"Yes, I am awake, John."

John was leaning heavily against the door frame of the bathroom, looking remarkably tired. His hair was mussed, sticking up in a disarray that John would be embarrassed at, his eyes were hazed with exhaustion that Sherlock couldn't understand, and the fact that he was leaning against the doorway proved that he was feeling weak or was, at least, too tired to stand.

"You look tired," Sherlock added, picking up his towel and slinging it over the curtain rod.

"I think I got a few hours sleep... Maybe."

"Why didn't you sleep?" Sherlock asked absently, walking back into his room as he slipped his dressing gown on.

"Sherlock, you doubt my level of concern for people who are sick."

"Oh, more needless worry. See what it gets you? No sleep," he replied, grabbing the teacup off of his nightstand and heading for the kitchen.

"I have to worry," John said, following after him doggedly, "I'm a doctor."

"Right," he said without thinking, rinsing his teacup out and putting the kettle on. "Where's my phone?"

"Coffee table."

He sat his teacup down, padding across the room to grab his mobile. He quickly scanned through his messages- one from Lestrade about being ill, one from Mycroft that he didn't bother to read- before dropping it back onto the newspaper on the table.

"Have you taken your temperature?"

"No."

"I'll get the thermometer, then."

"Don't bother. The fever's gone."

"I don't care. I'm checking, anyway."

Sherlock sighed heavily, pacing back into the kitchen to finish making his cup of tea. Half of him wanted to take a long drink from it, just to spite John and his doctoral habits, but he resisted. John would probably yell at him. And, in a way, Sherlock guessed that he owed John a bit. Just a bit.

He swirled the last of the milk idly into his tea, watching the surface turn lighter without much interest.

"Tell me you haven't taken a drink of that yet." John was back in the doorway of the kitchen, frowning at him.

"I haven't," Sherlock replied, tapping the excess liquid off the spoon and setting it on his saucer. "Have some faith."

"With you, faith is a very exclusive term." John crossed the room, handing him the thermometer. "Now, temperature."

Sherlock sighed, placing the thermometer under his tongue. "This... is... depraving," he said as steadily as he could manage. "And stupid."

"Quiet!" John said quickly, although not angrily. "You're going to mess up the reading."

Sherlock made a point to shrug. John responded to Sherlock's careless attitude by picking up the cup of tea he'd fixed, taking a large gulp. Sherlock's annoyed glance turned to a glare.

The thermometer beeped. "John," he complained, removing the thermometer.

"If you're feeling well enough to be your usual self, you feel well enough to make yourself a cup of tea," John said, taking the thermometer from Sherlock. "Well, you're right about the fever, anyway. Temp's back to thirty-seven."

"Thank you," Sherlock replied absently. He walked around John and pulled the refrigerator door open, scanning through the shelves. "We're out of milk," he said absently, grabbing the carton of eggs from the shelf.

"Yeah, I can see that. You used the last of it," John muttered, flicking the empty milk carton. "Good tea, though."

"Of course it's good. Although I didn't make it for _you_," he stressed, reaching behind John's back to grab the teacup. He drank the rest of it down in one, scalding gulp as John protested loudly.

"Sherlock!"

"I made it for myself," he said simply.

John sighed heavily, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. "Right... Right. I'm tired."

"I told you to go to bed," Sherlock said, striding across the room into the sitting room.

"I did go to bed! I just couldn't sleep!"

He sighed lightly, although his gaze was directed towards The Daily Mail sitting on the coffee table. "And what is yelling going to accomplish?"

John stood in the kitchen doorway for a moment, hands clenching into fists and unclenching again. Sherlock met his gaze for a moment before John strode into the sitting room and grabbed his coat, pivoting to stride into the landing.

The quick assessment whispered to Sherlock that John was up. By the time that John took the steps steadily, but quickly, downstairs, the deduction was complete and now the voice was whispering that _he_ had upset him.

He couldn't even begin to fathom how.

Only looking away as a response, he let his gaze stray to the fireplace. There wasn't a fire in the grate, although he had no desire to kindle one. The knife holding down his papers on the mantle was leaning precariously; probably would fall soon although he had no ambition to replace it in the proper spot. The skull was wearing a Santa hat, although Sherlock couldn't remember how long that had been there. He hadn't noticed it before, although he tried to ignore Christmas decorations when they started to materialize.

He yawned, running his fingers through his hair. The still-damp curls fell down into his eyes. He ignored them, reaching for The Daily Mail to page through the news that was, most assuredly, boring as ever.

* * *

John returned nearly two hours later.

Sherlock heard the front door open, followed by some rummaging of shopping bags (John had gone shopping, then), followed by the front door slamming closed a bit harder than was necessary. The probability of John still being angry was slim to none, so Sherlock assumed that John had several shopping bags full of groceries that he was trying to handle.

Sherlock yawned, thumping the newpaper back onto the table.

"I really hope you brought milk," Sherlock said loudly.

"You know," John started, his voice drifting up the hallway. "You- ow." There was a thump. John probably had walked into the railing or the wall, maybe even possibly tripped.

Sherlock looked towards the doorway.

He _did_ owe John, didn't he? Even if he hadn't asked for help...

Sherlock sighed, getting to his feet. He drifted from the living room and down the stairs, meeting John on the landing. He held out a hand.

John looked at him curiously. "... What?"

Sherlock glanced at the wall, extending his hand further.

"Oh!" John said quickly. "Right, yeah. Uhm... yeah, here." He handed off two of the shopping bags to Sherlock. "Thanks."

Sherlock only rolled his eyes, turning away from John and traipsing up the stairs again. He stepped into the kitchen and carefully set down the bags of groceries onto the countertop before turning to the sitting room.

He flopped himself down on the couch, looking in the general direction of the window.

Outside, in Central London, it was snowing again.

* * *

**There's going to be one more chapter, although I'm not sure what it's going to consist of, haha.**

**Thanks!**


	10. This was Going to be Brilliant

"Do you want to order take-away for lunch?" John asked.

Sherlock grunted. Personally, he wasn't too keen on breakfast, lunch, _or _dinner.

"Chinese might be good," John continued.

"Whatever you like," Sherlock muttered, not looking up.

"Fine. Chinese it is. Did you want anything?"

"No." Sherlock ran his fingers over the keyboard as he responded to an email from Lestrade, who was apparently resting in bed with his laptop _and _a fever.

"You know, I'm only letting you get away with using my laptop because you were so sick," John muttered. "Just a free pass."

Sherlock didn't respond. He could use John's laptop anytime he wished.

Twenty minutes later, the bell at their door broke the silence. John retrieved the food and dropped the bags on the table.

"I got extra sweet and sour chicken, if you decide you want something..."

John quietly trailed off. Sherlock glanced up to watch John slam the container down and streak to the bathroom. The bathroom door slamming didn't sufficiently muffle the sound of John getting violently sick.

Sherlock blinked in surprise before smirking. "John," he called. "It seems as though you're rather ill."

He smiled and looked back to the laptop screen. He could assess John's illness. A new experiment.

This was going to be brilliant.

* * *

**A 221B for the final chapter. Did I mention I hate 221Bs? Love the idea, the iconic nature of them, but... I love details, so 221 words is... difficult. xD And, as far as FF says [because I don't have Word], the story content is 221 words. Not including this author's note and all.**

**ANYWAY, more importantly... There will be a sequel! Dun dun dun! Yeah, I didn't know about until I ended up putting the beginnings of a John!sick!fic together with the end of this one. It will be called _Sniffle, Sneeze, Snivel_ and, like I said, John!sick!fic. So, you can look forward to that if you would like.**

**Thank you all for your continued patronage. The favourites, the follows, anf the reviews mean so much to me. So, thank you again.**


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